


Let The Games Begin

by AuthorToBeNamedLater



Series: Keeping Up With The Raptors [4]
Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Sports, Bromance, Divorce, Family, Fights, Gen, Hockey, NHL, NHL - Preseason, Original Fiction, Raptors, San Jose Sharks, Seattle, Sports, Vancouver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-11-29 20:51:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorToBeNamedLater/pseuds/AuthorToBeNamedLater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's preseason time! Training camp starts, new guys show up, and there might be a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let The Games Begin 1

**Author's Note:**

> More intro work, again. This one will have multiple chapters, at least two. My Google searches for the format of an NHL training camp turned up next to nothing, so there's a fair amount of guesswork here.

Mark Dennis Shearer was two weeks short of 20 years old, four time zones away from his family and armed with little more than an equipment bag and the Seattle Raptors' confidence that he might one day develop into an NHL-quality center. Mark had left his boyhood home in Halifax and moved across the continent to live with an aunt he barely knew.

But right now, the first-round draft pick sitting in the driver's seat of his rambling wreck of a Toyota Corrolla didn't look like a hockey player. He looked like a high school kid who needed a haircut. Mark unconsciously pushed his blond mop out of his eyes and flicked his left blinker on to turn into the parking lot. Somehow he felt like a peewee again, with no idea what was going to happen in the next few hours except that he would play a lot of hockey.

The teenager parked his car, got out and looked at the structure across the parking lot. _Rand Morgan Arena._ Where the Raptors were about to hold training camp. 30-something guys went in, 20 came out with a slot on the roster. The rest would go to the AHL or ECHL, or back to their juniors or college teams. A few would get released and put on waivers for other teams to claim. A couple of guys had already gotten sent home for medical reasons.

 _Well, here it is._ Mark took a breath, opened the back door, pulled out his equipment bag, and headed for the arena. He pushed open the back door where he'd been instructed to enter, anxiety starting to gnaw at him. Mark wasn't especially outgoing, and he was about to walk into a room full of people he didn't know. He had met most of the Raptors' front office and coaching staff at the draft and a couple of other players when they'd taken their physicals a few days ago, but Mark was still in largely uncharted waters.

A soccer ball bumped against his ankles. Mark bent over to pick it up and looked down the hallway. _The dressing room must be down there._

Footsteps, and then two guys appeared from the hall. One of them was around Mark's age, the other probably a few years older.

“Oh, you must be the new guy!” The younger one, a slender kid with black hair so wild that Mark had to wonder how it could fit under his helmet, said.

Mark tossed the ball back. “I'm one of them.”

“I'm Ricky.” Ricky inclined his head toward the other man, his hair obscuring his eyes in the process. “This is Jones.”

“That's it?” Mark asked Jones.

Jones shrugged fractionally. “My name's actually John Harris, but my middle name's Paul, so...John Paul Jones, you know...Jones. Hank came up with it.”

Mark nodded.

“You wanna play soccer?” Ricky offered. “We're kind of early; not a lot's going on yet.”

Mark shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

The three youngsters busied themselves kicking the ball around for a few minutes and Mark felt his anxiety begin to dissipate. Then he unleashed a bomb that sailed down the hall, off the cinderblock, and into someone's nose.

“ _Aaaagh!”_

Mark, Ricky and Jones all dashed down the hall to see what had happened. Another guy—a Raptor, Mark assumed—was hunched over, clutching at his nose.

Mark's jaw dropped. _I haven't even put on my skates yet and I already broke someone's nose!_

“Oh my God!” Mark rushed forward and bent over his victim. “Are you OK?”

.

.

.

Five seconds ago, former Washington Capital and current Seattle Raptor Michael Ronald Palmer had been pondering how much moving across the country sucked. Now, he was pondering how much having a soccer ball land on his nose sucked.

“Oh my God!” A voice cried from above Mikey, as his friends called him. “Are you OK?”

Mikey snapped his head up to regard the culprit. “Do I look--” he didn't have time to say “OK” before he felt his head make contact with something and heard a sharp cry of pain.

The guy above him, who Mikey figured had to be fresh out of the draft, dropped to his knees and grabbed his face.

“I'm gonna go get Doc!” Someone yelled. Mikey heard running footsteps down the hallway.

.

.

.

Samantha Ann Richardson, the Raptors' head athletic trainer, sometimes felt like Amy Adams' character in _Trouble With the Curve_ : She had grown up with men who swore and drank and farted. And now, she worked with them.

Sam was the fourth of five children and the only girl. Her mother died of meningitis when Sam was seven, further cementing her daughter's future as a woman in a man's world. Rather than run from her circumstances, though, Sam embraced them.

Sports had been everything in the Richardson's Brookline, Massachusetts family home. Sam had grown up a short distance away from Fenway Park and Boston Garden. There was a game on the TV set every night, and Sam's brothers were always coming home banged up from one sport or another. Since she couldn't play with them, Sam assumed the role of patching them up when they got hurt. Even when that meant putting a Band-Aid on her oldest brother Donny's cast.

Sam had gone to college intending to be a doctor, but she had soon discovered that her love for the sporting world just wouldn't leave her alone. Boston College hadn't had an athletic training major, so Sam continued in her pre-med major and coaxed the BC hockey coach into offering her an internship. Upon graduation she'd gotten her athletic training certification and worked at BC for eight years. BC had one of the best hockey programs in the country, with several graduates getting drafted to the NHL. Sam had never imagined she'd go from BC to the NHL, too.

But the Raptors had come calling five years ago, saying they needed an assistant athletic trainer and Dale Ballhaus, a Boston College alum who'd gotten drafted to Seattle, had talked her up. A few months later Sam found herself across the country getting used to an even more hectic schedule than she'd had at BC. When the head trainer left the insanity of the NHL to work with Gonzaga University across the state, Sam stepped in to fill his shoes. She loved her job and loved the Raptors. Girls were too much drama anyway. She'd much rather patch up the aftermath of a fistfight than deal with backstabbing and gossip.

“Morning, Sammy,” One of the Raptors' assistant coaches, Vince McElroy, greeted as Sam approached the trainers' room at Rand Morgan Arena. “Ready for the new year?”

“Hey, Vince! I--”

“Doc!”

Sam nearly fell over at the frantic holler. “Ricky, what is it?” she asked as the youngest Raptor—at least last she looked—skidded up to her and Vince.

“What's going on, son?” Vince jumped in.

Ricky was wide-eyed and panting. “There's--” he pointed behind himself. “Mikey—and Mark—they—they hit each other--”

“Who?” Sam belatedly realized Ricky must be talking about new players. “OK, Ricky, take me to wherever the problem is.”

.

.

.

“Hey, what's going on here?”

Mikey's eyes stopped watering long enough for him to look up. _Who is this?_ A dark-haired woman, maybe a few years older than Mikey, stood over him and the other guy.

The woman peered down into Mikey's face, then looked at the other player whose name Mikey still didn't know. “Come on. Let's clean you two up.”

Mikey staggered to his feet and followed her down the hall and to the trainers' room. _Trainer? She's a trainer?_

The woman patted the metal table. “Sit,” she ordered.

 _Yes, ma'am._ Mikey hoisted himself onto the table. The blond kid followed.

The trainer—she had to be, or she wouldn't be in here—snapped on a pair of examination gloves. “You allergic to latex? Either of you?” She had a strong accent. Boston, Mikey guessed, or somewhere in the Northeast.

“Uh, no,” Mikey said.

“Uh-uh.” The kid shook his head.

“Good.” The trainer handed Mikey and the kid each a wad of paper towels. “Pinch the bridge of your nose and tilt your head forward.”

“I'm a hockey player; this isn't my first bloody nose,” Mikey mumbled into the paper towel. The bleeding was already starting to slow.

“Then I guess you don't need me to tell you it isn't broken.” The trainer handed him an ice pack and turned her attention to the other guy. “Hey. Let me see.” A pause. “Not broken. What on earth happened, anyway?”

Mikey took the pack, set it on his nose, and looked at the trainer through his eyebrows. _What crawled up this woman's ass?_

“We were playing soccer,” The kid explained. “I kicked the ball and it hit...”

“Mikey,” Mikey supplied.

“...Mikey here in the nose.”

The trainer raised her eyebrows at the kid. “And what, it got you on the rebound?”

_All right, so she's kind of funny._

“I bent over to check on him and he stood up and got me.”

The trainer sent Mikey a mildly disapproving look, like she thought he'd done it on purpose.

“What in the wide, wide world of sports is going on here?” A gruff voice came from the hall. “Ah, Sammy. I see you have your first patients.”

“Hey, Pat,” “Doc” answered the Seattle Raptors' perpetually disgruntled general manager. Mikey had met Pat MacGregor once before, when MacGregor was assistant coach for the Los Angeles Kings' AHL affiliate in New Hampshire. MacGregor was never more than one step away from pissed off—the kind of guy who was riotously funny in a movie or TV show, but sort of a pain in the butt if you had to spend all day around him.

But MacGregor was a great GM, and that more than made up for his deficits in people skills. At least as far as the higher-ups in Seattle and the NHL were concerned.

“What happened?” MacGregor asked.

“One of your new guys over here kicked a soccer ball into my nose,” Mikey explained.

“And your other new guy banged his head into _my_ nose,” the kid—Mikey still didn't know his name—added.

“Hm.” MacGregor leaned over to study Mikey's face. “You're a new guy, eh?”

“You guys traded Ron Britton to Washington for me?” Mikey dared to pull the paper towels away from his nose.

“Oh! Mikey Palmer, yes, yes.” MacGregor nodded. “I see you've met Sammy Richardson, our head athletic trainer. You can call her Doc; everyone else does.”

 _Head athletic trainer? She looks a little young for that. Or maybe she's older than she looks._ Mikey eyed Doc, who had turned to the counter and was looking through the cabinets for something. Even an old pair of jeans and a gray T-shirt couldn't disguise the graceful, tapered lines from her shoulders to he hips, especially as she stood on tiptoe and stretched to reach the top shelf. _She might actually be pretty if she put some effort into it._

“Sammy, Will wants to see you,” MacGregor said.

“Be right there,” Doc said brusquely.

“And see if you can have someone mop up this blood; they're gonna think we're killing people in here.” MacGregor left the room.

Doc looked somewhat annoyed with Pat as she walked over to Mikey and the kid. “Keep the ice on it for 30 minutes. Once the bleeding's stopped you two can practice. Welcome to Seattle.”

Mikey watched Doc go. He didn't have to worry about anyone noticing him staring at her backside.

“Mikey, right?”

Mikey had almost forgotten the kid was there. “Yeah,” he answered through the paper towels and ice. The bleeding was starting to slow.

“Mark Shearer.” The kid reached his right hand across his body.

Rather awkwardly, Mikey returned the handshake. “Mikey Palmer. Nice to meet you. You hit pucks as high as that soccer ball?”

“Um, not usually.”

“Good.”

.

.

.

One of William LaJeunesse's primary attributes as a hockey coach was his ability to size up players at training camp before they even skated. Vince McElroy had once said that if the league would permit it, LaJeunesse could assemble a Stanley Cup-winning team just from picking names off the list at the draft. LaJeunesse thought this a gross exaggeration, but his intuition was almost never off.

The Raptors, in a mixture of gray, black, white and red practice sweaters, filed out of the tunnel and lined up on the blue line. Hank Sheridan stepped out of line and turned to face the team, giving some kind of preseason team captain speech. LaJeunesse stood behind the boards, arms folded across his chest, and started his visual inspection.

 _He'll make it,_ LaJeunesse thought, starting his visual inspection at the end of the line. _That one won't. That guy...maybe. Him, yes. Yes, no, and yes. Not bad._

“What do you think, Will?” Pat MacGregor came down the stairs.

“Haven't seen them play yet, Pat,” LaJeunesse answered.

The team fell out into a circle and to follow Hank in an opening stretch.

“You don't need to see 'em play.” Pat put his hands on his hips. “Come on, tell me what you think.”

LaJeunesse discreetly pointed to a guy at the far end of the ice. “80 down there? Not making it.”

“Grinnell?” Pat exclaimed. “He's a second-round pick!”

“Not making it,” LaJeunesse repeated.

“Our scouts said he was tearing up the OHL,” Pat said.

“You asked me what I thought,” LaJeunesse said. “And I'm telling you. Most guys need time in the minors.”

Pat scowled.

“Hey, have I ever been wrong about this?” LaJeunesse challenged his GM.

Pat continued to scowl.

“OK. Fine. Mark Shearer's gonna make it.”

“He's just out of juniors. He'll probably need another year in Tacoma at least. First round or no.” The Raptors had traded one of their third-liners to the Columbus Blue Jackets, who were so desperate for another warm body that they'd given Seattle a first-round pick.

“You just said most guys need time in the minors?”

“And some don't. Shearer's a don't.”

“He's not even out here!” Pat went on. “He and Mike Palmer are sitting in the trainers' room with ice on their noses."

LaJeunesse was not deterred. “And when he gets out here, he'll make it.” He looked at Pat. “Ice on their noses?”

Pat shrugged. “Soccer kickaround gone bad. No broken bones.”

“So they can't play soccer. But they'll both make my hockey squad.”

Pat shook his head and started to walk up the stairs away from the boards where he and Will had been standing.

“I'm never wrong!” LaJeunesse called.

Pat made a dismissive gesture as he ambled back to his office. LaJeunesse gave the retreating form a tolerant smile and turned back to what would become his hockey team.

.

.

.

Gunnar Norgaard, known as “Norgie” around the NHL, had been the Seattle Raptors' backup goalie for three years. He'd been drafted to the New York Islanders just before the infamous 2004-2005 lockout and had spent the next two years as backup for the Isles' minor league affiliate, the Bridgeport Sound Tigers. After two more years as a starter, he'd gotten traded to the Tacoma Raptors. Two seasons later Seattle decided Gunnar was ready for prime time and brought him up to the big club.

And now he was in training camp, trying to keep his spot as a backup and hoping he might prove himself worthy of taking over the starting job one day.

“You ready, Gunnar?” Kent Berenger, the Raptors' goalie coach, called as Gunnar finished taking a swig from the water bottle on top of the net.

Gunnar replaced his goalie mask and spun around to face the blue line. “Ready.”

The sight of eight players—four defenseman and four forwards—ready to send one-time shots at him gave Gunnar the sensation of facing a firing squad.

Kent nodded. “Go!”

The pucks started coming and Gunnar let his instinct take over.

_Glove save. Kick save. That one got in. Pad. Glove. Stick. Stick. Kick. Good._

“Not too shabby, Gunnar,” Kent said. “We might eventually make a goalie out of you.”

Gunnar smiled a little to himself. Kent never had a nice thing to say about either of his goalies.

.

.

.

Sandy loved preseason games. They meant nothing in the standings and didn't matter much to anyone except the managers, coaches, analysts, and the armchair versions thereof. Also, this year, the preseason seemed to have helped Sandy finally stop reliving the Stanley Cup Final.

The goalie pushed open the door to the home dressing room in the Boeing Arena and observed Hank and Andor sitting on either side of a very frustrated-looking Stanislav Cibulka. Nobody else had arrived yet.

“...No, Bulk. It doesn't work like that,” Hank was saying.

“What's up?” Sandy dropped his equipment bag on the bench. _Must be pregnancy-related. I remember being on Bulk's end of these discussions._ Amy Cibulka was expecting a baby sometime in March.

“Bulk tried to solve his wife's problems,” Hank said.

Sandy shook his head. “Can't do that,” he advised, turning to his locker.

“Amy said her nose was stuffy,” Stan said, helpless exasperation in his voice. “I told her to use nasal spray and she got mad at me!”

“Nancy's doctor told her not to use that stuff,” Sandy said.

“But she got mad at _me_!” Stan repeated.

“You can't solve a woman's problems,” Andor counseled.

“Especially a pregnant woman,” Hank put in.

“All you can do is emote with her,” Andor finished.

“I do not _emote_ ,” Stan spat the word like a curse.

“You will if you want your marriage to last the next five months.” Andor began stuffing his foot into his skate.

Sandy winced internally. It wasn't the first time he'd thought that if he'd emoted with Nancy a little more, he might still be married to her.

The little gathering broke up as a few more Raptors entered the dressing room. Sandy grabbed his chest piece and sat down next to Stan.

“Listen, Bulk, I know it's rough,” Sandy said quietly. “But it's not gonna last forever. We've all lived through it. Trust me.”

“I just want to help her,” Stanislav said sulkily. “That's all.”

“I don't think I'm in much position to dole out marriage advice,” Sandy began. “But by listening to her and doing nothing, you _are_ helping. She's just venting and wants to know you understand her.”

“I don't understand her!”

Sandy smiled at the small forward. “Fake it.”

Poor Stan just looked more and more confused. “So I'm helping by not helping?”

Sandy considered the answer. “Yeah.”

Stanislav shrugged. “If you say so.”

Sandy smiled. “I do. And so would everyone else in here. The ones who wouldn't say that have never lived through it.”

.

.

.

_Shot. Save. Clear the rebound. Nice._

Sandy repositioned himself between the pipes and breathed a sigh of relief as Jones scooped up the puck and took it back to San Jose's end.

_Not bad at all._

.

.

.

Mark Shearer, his visor replaced with the full cage reserved for players who suffered facial injuries, took the pass from Jones and positioned himself in front of San Jose's net. _Easy, easy, not too fast..._

He fired the shot in right as the goalie threw up a waffle pad to block it, but the puck tipped off the pad and dropped into the net.

Mark had to laugh in surprise as his teammates swarmed him.

It might be only be the preseason, but it still felt great.

.

.

.

“ _That kid's got a heart of gold. Nobody loves the game like he does.”_

LaJeunesse recalled his phone conversation with Jack McNamara, Mark's juniors coach. Jack had been right. While the other Raptors on the ice congratulated Mark on his goal, the youngster stood staring at the Sharks' crease, laughing in amused disbelief.

_God, I hope he never loses that._

.

.

.

Evgeny Javidovich Rusakov, known as “Zhenya” or “Rusty” to those who knew and loved him, was 38 years old, six feet tall, and seemingly bulletproof. The St. Petersburg, Russia native could take a licking and keep on ticking. It was a good characteristic for someone whose job description included dishing out and taking beatings.

The fourth-line right winger was the Raptors' primary enforcer. Enforcers were traditionally the guys who couldn't play but could fight. Over the past 15 years or so that definition had slowly started to go away. With the new rules implemented after the 2004 lockout debacle, teams simply couldn't afford to pay guys who weren't actually playing hockey. Enforcers now had to be fighters and players. But Zhenya wasn't kidding himself about his hockey prowess. He was a tough guy first, and a hockey player second. And he was OK with that. Despite what the pansies at NHL Network and such thought, hockey teams needed enforcers. The other team needed to know that if they beat up one of your best players, your enforcer was coming for them.

Zhenya took his place to the right of Jones while the center set up for a face-off with the Sharks. Next to Zhenya stood Rob LeBeau, the Sharks' enforcer. He nudged Zhenya and gave a look that said, _“You wanna go?”_

There was no particular reason for a fight at this point. But there didn't really need to be. Zhenya nodded curtly.

The puck dropped and it was game on. The two tough guys lunged at each other, sticks and mitts hitting the ice as the crowd roared. Zhenya and LeBeau grabbed each other's sweaters, swinging and punching with their free hands.

The scrap didn't last long before Zhenya lost his footing and went down, LeBeau falling on top of him. The crowd cheered and the enforcers went to their respective penalty boxes to serve their five-minute majors.

Preseason was a time to knock off some rust and get back on top of your game. And if fighting was your game, you needed to practice.

.

.

.

Mark's goal ended up as the only one of the night, and the Raptors walked out with a 1-0 shutout.

“Hey, nice work, rook,” Mikey congratulated with a bracing clap to the upper arm as they walked through the tunnel.

Mark threw a brief glance over his shoulder. Mikey was also wearing the cage on his helmet. The bruising had spread across his cheekbones, and Mark knew he didn't look much better. X-rays had confirmed no broken bones, but both of them were still pretty sore. “It _was_ puck luck,” Mark pointed out.

“Quit the modesty,” Mikey ordered. “It was still a goal, and the only one we needed.”

Mark's smile broadened. _Yeah. Yeah it was._

Maybe this NHL thing could work after all.

 


	2. Let The Games Begin 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second and final part of training camp. How many of the rookies make it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a lot of hockey here...actually, none at all. I tried to write some, but in the end it just made the story drag and didn't feel natural. So I ditched it in favor of a little family angst and the end result of the training camp we don't get to see.
> 
> The Vancouver Canucks did in fact cough up 2-0 and 3-2 leads to the Boston Bruins in the 2011 SCF (and we in Boston rather enjoyed watching it) and exit the playoffs in 5 games to the Los Angeles Kings last year. However, they have not (yet) sent Luongo to Toronto and to the best of my knowledge have no plans to send the Sedins there either. Nor did they get rid of their coach, GM or half the roster over the offseason. This is pure fiction because I have plans for the Raptors and Canucks later in this series and I didn't want to bash the real Canucks too badly.

The Vancouver Canucks were Seattle's biggest rival. The two were the only relevant teams in the Northwest Division, they were a mere two and a half hours' drive from each other, and they were founded around the same time. The last part fueled the rivalry plenty, as the NHL delayed Seattle's request for a franchise in favor of Vancouver back in the late 1960s. Seattle had gotten the Raptors in 1976, but it was still a bone of contention that the league had favored Vancouver.

In addition to all that, the Canucks were, in Sandy Garneau's completely objective opinion, punks. It was an opinion shared by most of the rest of the league, and quite a few fans, which was how Sandy knew it was completely objective. Following a Stanley Cup Final loss—which included coughing up 2-0 and 3-2 series leads--and a five-game first-round exit to the Los Angeles Kings in 2012 the Canucks had cleaned house: New GM, new head coach, and they'd shopped about half their roster. They had most notably sent their goalie (such as he was) Roberto Luongo to the Toronto Maple Leafs, along with identical twins Henrik and Daniel Sedin. As far as Sandy was concerned none of this had made any difference. The new punks were the same as the old punks.

However, one good thing about Vancouver was that Sandy got to see his children. After the Raptors were done losing 3-1 to the Canucks in a preseason tilt, Sandy whisked Emily and Julianna out of Rogers Arena and to a nearby ice cream stand where he listened to them carry on about school, and their friends, and their activities. Julianna talked about her art lessons (currently she was working on sculpture) and Emily yammered on about ballet (she was going to learn to dance _en pointe_ soon). Any discussion or mention of their mother was meticulously avoided.

Sandy sure hated that.

“Dad?” Julianna asked once the three of them were settled at a picnic table. “Once the season starts, we're not gonna see you much anymore, right?”

Sandy furrowed his brow at his older girl. “What do you mean, Jules? You'll see me any weekend I have a home game, and we'll be in Vancouver three times this year.”

Julianna didn't look convinced. “That's not very much.”

It really wasn't, Sandy thought. 48 hours on weekends he was home or a few hours when he happened to be in Vancouver.

“You guys can still call me,” Sandy offered lamely. “You know I always take your calls.”

“But we miss seeing you,” Emily piped up.

“What's up with this?” Sandy looked between both his daughters. “Didn't you miss your mom when you were in Seattle with me all summer?” The divorce wasn't yet official, but Sandy and Nancy had already separated and worked out custody arrangements like it was. All they needed was to sign a few more papers.

“Yeah, but we get to live with her all year,” Julianna said.

“And you're more fun than Mom,” Emily muttered.

Julianna elbowed her sister, “Em!” She chastised.

Sandy certainly was not going to pursue that line of conversation. “Come on, girls, can't we talk about something a little happier?”

Emily, always the more chipper of the young Garneaus, perked up right away. “Can you come see my dance recital in December?”

“December?” Sandy repeated. “Maybe. If I can't be there you'll have your mom video it for me, right?”

Emily nodded.

Julianna just kept eating her ice cream in silence. Sandy cast a concerned glance her way and wondered, not for the first time since January, what he and Nancy had done to their children.

.

.

.

“ _Gentlemen, as you know, there are 35 of you here. Only 20 of you can make this roster. We've made our decision. If you see a yellow Post-It note on your stall, go to Pat's office and he'll tell you where you're headed. If you don't, buckle in and hold on to your hat. Welcome to the NHL.”_

Ricky Traynor entered the dressing room, heart in his throat, Coach LaJeunesse's speech still ringing in his head.

Training camp was done, the preseason over. And now, every Raptor would find out if he was staying with the big boys, heading to Tacoma for some more time in the minors, or what.

The room was completely silent as guys walked up to their stalls. No one was safe, no matter how many years he'd played or how long he'd been with the team. A player was only valuable so long as he could produce and the team could pay him. If one of those two didn't add up, he was gone.

_I did score in the game against Colorado. Twice._

Ricky swallowed and stood in front of his stall. He wouldn't be surprised if he were headed back to Tacoma. After all, he'd only been called up to replace Francoeur, and Frankie was back now. Ricky knew his game still needed plenty of improvement.

He looked up.

No Post-It.

Ricky looked at the floor to make sure the note hadn't fallen. There was no Post-It. Not anywhere. Ricky was in.

“I'm in,” he breathed.

“Me too.”

Ricky looked to his left. Mark Shearer was looking at his stall, a broad grin on his face. “I made it,” the other player announced.

“Hot damn!” Jones crowed, hugging both rookies from behind. “We're all in!”

Ricky laughed with relief and looked to Mark.

On the other end of the room, Casey Grinnell stood motionless at his stall. The second-round pick from Indiana hadn't made the cut.

.

.

.

Pamela Hayes Shearer was a kind, gentle woman in her late forties, the creases on her brow and around her eyes speaking to having spent 25 years of her life worrying over and laughing with her three children. She and her husband Dennis now had a totally empty nest: Their oldest daughter, Carolyn, lived with her husband in New Brunswick; Anna, her second daughter, was a senior at Dalhousie University; and the youngest child, Mark, had recently moved to Seattle to begin his NHL career.

Pamela hit the start button on her coffee maker and heard her phone chirp with an incoming text message. It was from Mark.

_**I made it.** _

The text said nothing else, but Pamela gasped as she realized what it meant.

_He's in. They're not sending him down to the minors or putting him on waivers._

“Dennis!” Pamela called to her husband, who was still sleeping. “Mark made it! He's in!”

“What, Pam?” Dennis stumbled out of their bedroom.

“Mark made the roster!” Pamela announced.

“We can celebrate in an hour.” Dennis went back into the room.

Pamela knew her husband just didn't like being up in the morning, not unlike his son. And at the moment she was too giddy with motherly pride to be irked at Dennis. Pamela picked up her phone and set to calling Mark's sisters.

.

.

.

“Hey, Mark!” Jones called as Mark left the dressing room. “Ricky and I are gonna go get lunch somewhere. You game?”

“Sure,” Mark answered. “Just let me drop my bag in my car.”

Mark reached the door just as Hank walked through. “Thanks,” Mark said as the team captain held the door.

“Hi, Dad!”

“Hey,” Hank greeted. Two girls, both teenagers, were peeking over the roof of a 12-passenger van. They both had fair skin with dark eyes and hair. The taller one, who Mark assumed was older, had long, straight hair while the younger one had unruly curls pulled into a hasty ponytail.

“You guys drove that here?” Hank asked.

“Donna did,” the younger girl answered.

“We didn't have much choice,” The other one, who Mark figured was Donna, answered. “Your car's in the shop, remember?”

“Those your kids?” Mark asked, pausing beside Hank.

“That's a third of my kids,” Hank answered.

“You have six kids?”

“Good math.”

“Can you drive home?” Donna asked. “I don't like this thing.”

“She wants to know if she gets her own car now,” the younger girl said.

Donna swatted her sister's shoulder. “Ashley!”

“I do,” Hank answered Mark. “And if I catch you talking to either one of those girls, I will kill you.”

Mark glanced to the Sheridan girls. Ashley gave him a friendly wave.

Mark looked back to Hank, who quirked his eyebrows once in a way that might have meant he was joking or deadly serious, then walked to the car.

“Relax,” Jones said as he and Ricky came up on either side of Mark. “He gave me the same speech last year.”

“Me too,” Ricky added.

“He's kidding, right?” Mark asked, watching Hank climb into the drivers' seat while Donna trotted around to the passenger's side.

“I got no idea,” Jones said.

“Yeah, I was too chicken to find out,” Ricky said.

The other two Raptors walked toward Jones' car, leaving Mark to contemplate the exchange.


End file.
